PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF III Baby Blues
by Akylae
Summary: Pain and solitude are only the first similarities between House and his patient. To succeed, he must overcome the mystery, the odds, society and most of all, his demons. Stand-alone trilogy finale. Post season 3, AU, Chameron and major Huddy. Enjoy.
1. A House Divided

Standard disclaimers apply, made for practice, not profit.  
Constructive criticism welcome.

**BABY BLUES**

**A House divided**

A nurse, a janitor and a guard stare stupidly at House, their current chores pushed out of mind by curiosity and confusion as they can't quite pinpoint what about him is odd today. One by one, they realize he is just walking, without limp, cane spun around like a cheerleader's baton.

Unfazed by their attention, House bee-lines for the pharmacy, orange bottle flying from pocket to counter and landing in a slam.

"Hey, Apu!" House calls out, before throwing a glance at a toothy girl and her balding dad. "Such lousy service, these immigrants." He mock complains to the other man, who silently creeps away.

A Desi clerk appears from the maze of shelves. "Yes?"

House glares annoyance. "Guess, Sherlock." He shoves the pill bottle across, rapping a toneless tune as he waits. The second it is back House pops one, bouncing it between cheeks as the rest are filed away for later. "Excellent vintage."

"Not taking two?" Cuddy materializes behind him.

"I'm on a diet." He deadpans, wondering why he failed to recognize her footsteps.

"Yes, because the junky figure is so hard to maintain." She slams a few files against his chest. "Go play doctor."

"Awww…" House pouts. "I don't wannaaa…"

"Go, or I take away your candies." She shoots a parental, explanatory look from under raised brows.

"Yes mommy." He grumbles, ignoring taking the files in blatant refusal of paperwork, but ambling in the clinic's general direction none the less, his gait intentionally, deceptively lopsided.

Seconds later, House pauses in the frame of a half open opaque door, frowning at the forgotten sport's bag perched on the table of an empty exam room.

"There's no one in here!" He shouts over his shoulder to the crowded clinic waiting room.

"A teen just got in!" Brenda shouts back from the nurse's station.

"He forgot his gym bag." House huffs and hobbles in, prying open the unzipped bag out of juvenile curiosity. "Shit…" He mutters, quickly fishing out a tan blanket and braking into a mad run at the elevators.

"Outa my way!!!" He hollers, racing as fast as he can.

Cane thrusts through closing elevator doors and rapidly evading passengers to strike at the emergency pause button. House squeezes himself sideways inside through half closed sliding door and hooks the cane in the crook of the occupied arm. He rubs his knuckles at something in the bundle, than launches the pod in a lightning fast double poke at the controls.

"C'mooon…"

Other people stand atiptoe to peer over his tall shoulders, their efforts annulled by him diving face down in the cloth. Just as he looks up a loud ping announces arrival.

"Hang in there." House takes off in a one-legged sprint, weaving through a sea of worried parents and soft-faced staff of a colorful pediatric wing. "Cyanotic preemie!" He declares, forcing his way into a sterile NICU unit, zeroing in on the first vacant basin. Dexterous hands rub clean a face the likes of a dried plum, infant intubated mere moments later.

"We'll take it from here." Chase elbows his way between House and the basin in a surprisingly harmless yet effective way, taping the pulse-ox on the preemie's palm even as he says it.

"I'm fine, thanks." He talks back, but a short Asian nurse with disturbingly blond hair takes him firmly by the forearms, gesture countered by a soft tone of voice. "We'll take good care of him."

The words seem to snap House from a spell. "Sure." He nods, oddly indifferent all of a sudden, and allows himself be lead out.

Still, he watches on as the staff swarm around the new arrival, cleaning the birth curd and dressing him in tiny diapers.

When Robert peeks out and waves him over, House waves his head 'No' and saunters off, limp pronounced from the pain of unexpected exertion.

**…**

House props on ER's double swing gates. "What's today's specialty?" He asks a graying woman with equally wrinkled face and lab coat.

"Diarrhea." The doctor deadpans. "Want some?"

"Depends." He saunters through teal tiled room, peeking round screens at disproving patients. "It's not your everyday ER material. What's it come with?"

"Let's see… fainting," She nods at a teenage girl. "…aaand… -fainting." An older man is pointed out.

"Fluid loss. Dehydration. Boring." He rattles.

"My thoughts exactly."

"I'll take it." He snatches both charts of their respective beds.

"What!? Why?"

"She has arrhythmia..." He points at the girl's vitals monitor. "…and he… 's growing breasts."

"Not boring." She follows.

"Not at all."

**…**

"Two cases of severe sudden stomach ache, no apparent cause." House declares on entry of the diagnostic conference room. "She progressed from common cold to stomach flu to syncope." A file is tossed to Foreman. "He just fell over from all the shitting, but you might want to check out some grouse anatomy," The other lands on the glass table with a slide, stopping in Cameron's lap. "First one to get it right earns a point. First one to collect ten wins."

"What?" Forman asks sarcastically.

"After ten independently solved cases? Guess." Sauntering back to his office, House shrugs off the heavy gray coat. "Investigate alone. Ask me for help and you lose. You've got three consults allowed each. And don't try to smuggle an extra, it will cost you fifty." House looks up, mulling an idea over. "Bucks." He amends.

"Not if you don't find out." Cameron smirks.

"If you can do that, you've missed the profession." House remarks bluntly. "Now git."

**…**

Cobalt blues skim over some cyclist article, indulging a not-that interested mind, popsicle butt sticking out between teeth and spinning around.

Noise of door creaking open stirs House from ineffective reading of a vehicular magazine, and he snaps up annoyed. "No treshpashing!"

"Last time I checked this was _my _hospital." Cuddy retorts.

Frown on face, House is worried by the second surprise in one day, inquisitive eyes snapping to her feet. The half-stiletto shoes are an unusual choice, and he stores the fact for latter dissection. He looks up slowly, savoring the sight of long legs and smirks at noting the tight pull of fabric over her abdomen. The woman couldn't pick a fitting suit to save her life. And she's back at concealing the ominous twins.

"While sizing up your minions may be bad policy…" She begins with a threatening glare. "…sizing up your _boss_ is occupational suicide."

Lolly is sucked dry straight from his mouth. "Than I'll better go back to this." He holds the magazine between them.

In a single stride Cuddy is above him, magazine pushed out of way. "You found the baby, right?" She asks in a tone of just-double-checking.

"Yes." He states blandly, leaning back in the desk chair, magazine pulled with him in triumph of their little tug of war.

"Any idea who brought it?"

"Brenda should be able to ID the perp." He points the lolly vaguely down and out. "Anything else?"

Cuddy tilts her head curiously. "Anything else I should know of?"

He shakes his head.

"Will you be doing follow ups?"

"Nope." He answers, already back to not-quite-reading the article. "Diagnosis obvious."

**…**

"Hey!" Wilson protests a hand snatching his plate of fries.

"Hey, to you too." House nonchalantly plops on the chair opposite and starts munching his crisp, gold plunder.

Wilson rolls his eyes and takes the burger securely with both hands. "Heard you breathed life back into a kid."

"Grapevine's going stale." House stuffs another fry, happy that the incident of non-limpness got pushed aside. "Surprised you haven't dropped in earlier."

"Did you?"

"Elijah wouldn't have done it better."

"Yes, well we Jews always had a knack for medicine." Wilson takes a bite. "So?"

"So, what?"

"So then what happened?" Wilson is eager.

"I gave it to Chase." House shoots a 'duh' look.

"You're not going to oversee the case?"

"No. Why would I?"

"You're kinda his _admitting_." Wilson speaks as if to a slow child.

"And Robert is now _actually_ his attending." House waves a fry for emphasis before almost gulping it down whole. "And there's no point. That premature, it'll probably be dead soon."

"House-!"

"Wha-at?!" House one ups Wilson. "He's three months under." Diagnostician resumes in a normal tone. "Statistics says he's a goner, not like it's my divine judgment or something." He chides the overreaction.

Wilson steals back a few fries.

"And if it lives, it'll be slow." House appends.

"You're impossible!"

"And yet I'm here." He gets up, taking the fries with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Clinic duty." He deadpans.

"I don't buy it."

"Cuddy threatened me with interest rates." House makes up an excuse and limps away, postponing interrogation for another day.

"You're really not handling it?" Wilson shouts after him across the cafeteria.

"For the last time, Wilson!" House shouts across the crowded space. "I won't do you!" He turns around and, at the sound of Wilson's embarrassed explanations, walks out with a pleased smirk.

**…**

Early winter dusk finds House lounging on the old leather sofa, dressed in the domestic winter attire of hoodie and sweats, flipping through the channels. A groan builds in his throat, and his head falls back, eyes wide and then shutting tight. His right hand slips to the aching muscle, kneading fiercely till the spasm lessens to sore stiffness. He glances impatiently at the watch, sighing with frustration at what he sees.

A bell rings through a darkened apartment so he gingerly maneuvers his bad leg from the coffee table. He limps heavly across the room, sparing a limb worn out by hours of unaided use.

Door opens to Wilson's amiable expression and a six-pack of local brew. "Game on?" Younger man sees himself in.

"Just about to." House shuts the door behind him, tone hiding recent pain as he fishes for meds, only taking a pill when the two are side by side on the sofa.

"Shots not working?" Wilson interrupts the silence with cautiously gauged sympathy, whilst staring at some sports drink commercial to avoid eye contact.

House hoped medication timed to Wilson's company would result in criticism he could shred with implications of injured feelings, and in burying the subject avoid yet another why-didn't-you-tell-me argument. So much for that. "They help." He takes a sip.

"But not enough to cut down on vicodin."

House deliberates on telling or not. "Not if I want to walk caneless." He admits.

"You can do that?" Wilson beams.

House winces from the enthusiasm. "Tried today."

"That's great!"

Uncomfortable, House shrinks away from anything resembling praise. "Just watch the game."

Wilson shifts in the silence, battling some inner dilemma. "You should stay on top of his case."

"Not a pediatrician."

"Wouldn't be a precedent for you." Wilson taps the beer. "You said I can't get sick form my patients."

"That's right."

"I could mentally. If I connected with everyone."

"You don't?"

"Did with the first three. Figured I had to choose between my quality of life or theirs."

House frowns. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, you're Oscar material."

"Thanks. I guess. The point is… I still connect with some. I can't help it. And the connection makes me try harder. More of those remiss than others."

House stares at his beer. "What about when they don't? I've got enough dead patients already."

"This is different. You know what's wrong; you know how it's treated. If he doesn't overcome the odds, it won't be anything you've done." Wilson sighs. "Not being invested is a great policy. But sometimes you should get involved. Just to remind yourself you're human."

House doesn't reply, and for once, Wilson doesn't push it.

**…**

Returning to Princeton-Plainsboro at eight in the evening, House tells himself it's for the CD he left in the player, and the spare set of clothes in his backpack is just to update the backup to with regards to the new season. Riding from the underground garage, he taps the cane against linoleum floor, second-guessing himself. Advancing on the first floor he punches the pertaining button and the doors slide open to a hectic crayon gallery stabbed to cork.

He opens NICU doors but stays out of coughing range of the basins, demanding expression affixed on his face.

"He's restless." Robert replies sadly, himself packing up for the day. "No more than a few hours the whole day."

"NASA spent millions developing a zero G pen." House flaunts trivia knowledge while dressing up in paper. "The Russians used a pencil." He snaps a pair of latex gloves and transforms the sky-blue blanket into a tight envelope around the twitchy preemie. "They had similar ideas on medicine."

In seconds the premie stills, unfocused baby blues searching House's face as they slowly slide closed.

"Shushing, warmth and pressure." House quietly explains. "Two out of three." He steps back cautiously, his balance precarious, while removing the gloves and mask. "I'll drop by tomorrow."

"I'll tell the nurses." Robert offers.

House nods confirmation and farewell, but instead of heading for his car, he takes a detour in the coma ward, sprawling on a vacant bed fully dressed, feet in boots sticking from under a flimsy blanket.

"'Night Maude." He gives a mock wish to a chubby white-trash looking woman and downs the evening pill, dozing off rather fast.

**…**

Annoying squeal of janitor cart rips House from what was becoming a moist dream, and he squints confusion at the unexpected sound. Looking around he recognizes the setting, memories of the last day coming back to him. House decides to make himself scarce before having to explain extra odd circumstances to Cuddy.

Wake-up dose consumed but not yet active, he ghosts through the halls as much as cane and limp allow, avoiding sleepy staff in wide berths.

In the shower room House helps himself to a set of teal scrubs and a pair of backup underwear from his locker. A blast of steaming water rouses him to a level sufficient for enduring the next hour or half without assaulting the achy thigh.

For a few coins he obtains miniscule amounts of food and drink from one out-of-way vending machine, and in seconds the candy bar is gone, washed down by what is best described as hot caffeine concentrate with a side order of mud. A spearmint gum replaces mouth hygiene and a vigorous ruffle affixes the signature, recently-electrocuted hairdo just in time for the unannounced NICU appointment.

The first detail to catch his eye is the screen above the brat. "Who's in charge here?" He shouts, three infants crying their lungs out in response to his obstruction of sleep.

"What on Earth are you doing?" A tall blonde nurse hisses incomprehension at him.

"His vitals are elevated." He berates undaunted. "All of them."

"Slightly." She leans in for a glare across the basin. "They're stabile."

"You mean they've been like this for hours." House glares back. "Not life threatening doesn't mean you get to ignore it. He d' be screaming his lungs out if they were any good." Cane-calloused fingertips move quickly over the kid, probing cautiously. He grits his teeth from the resistance he finds in the abdomen. "What do you mix the formula with? Water?"

"Milk." She replies.

"Give me your pro biotic yogurt." He nods in the general direction of the floor's nurse locker rooms.

"How'd j-"

"You look the type that shits daily." He snarks. "Go!"

The woman storms out with an angry frown on her freckled face, and House uses her absence to raid the shelves for necessary supplies. When she returns, he is loading a needle-less syringe with saline, its plastic cap between his teeth.

"Shayk ich." House demands, than spits the cap into the corner waste bin. "Strong. … C'mon, c'mon." He waves his fingers in demand of the item once she's done.

Small plastic bottle is unscrewed hastily, last quarter of syringe filled with its thick fluid. "What's the number one cause of colic?"

"Lactose intolerance." She answers watching him uncap the naso-gastric cath.

"And what do lactobacilli do?" He slips the syringe tip into preemie's feeding tube, than empties it a milliliter line at a time.

"Metabolize lactose." The nurse gets it. "Sorry."

"New to this?" He throws her a glance.

"Yeah. Still catching everything."

"Catch faster."

"What's going on?" Robert asks, still in civilian clothes.

"Incompetent staff. I thought I taught you not to trust nurses." House shares the criticism around like a good sport, before striding out in a protesting gait.

Behind House's back, Chase smiles to the squinting baby. "You're in good hands." His glance follows House down the hall.

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	2. House of Horror

**House of horror**

Leaning on his cane, House stands like a beam in the middle of a torrent, defying the flow of people passing him by from all sides. He smiles at the sound of expensive shoes racing down perpendicular hallways in opposite directions.

"Wha-?" Foreman skids to a halt at the sight of Houses smug grin, catching his breath.

Cameron slows down with more grace, frowning. "You paged us code blue?"

A brow arches. "That surprises you?"

She huffs. "Not really."

"Then report."

"MRI showed no structural abnormalities with Amy's heart. " Foreman supplies. "Her blood works came back negative for usual stomach flu suspects: coli, salmonella… Also, she started hallucinating. I _was_ in the middle of a full tox screen." He glares a little.

"Let me guess, no drugs?"

"None so far."

House turns to Cameron.

"Reverend Jonas-"

"Jonas the jerk?" He interrupts. "As in the earth is six days old?"

"No cancer cells in the breast biopsy." She returns to the medicine. "No hormonal treatments or imbalance. He's… growing breasts."

The man's face flashes in House's mind, smooth cheeks and thinning hair. "Vain little twit." He whispers, heading for the convalescence wing, strolling in the private room singled out by a priestly-clad visitor.

"It never ceases to amaze me, the lengths you people will go to, to make your god look pathetic."

"Who are you?" The guest asks.

"Then again he did make you up in his own stupid image." House ignores dimwit junior. "Or was that the other way around." Finger taps lip thoughtfully. "Doesn't matter." He shrugs. "Can't have god use a brilliant strategy involving balanced interplay of random and ordered processes, to build systems of growing complexity, oh no." House shakes a frowning face in dead-serious sarcasm. "He has to pull whole thing out of his ass all at once, watch as it fails epically so he could flush the whole thing down the drain and start from scratch with the same damaged goods. Not to mention they get worse over time. It's not like he could teach them new tricks. No, god only works one way, and that's down. How brilliant and so very patient of her- *akm* - him."

"Get out." The guest demands, patient too dumbstruck to respond.

"I mean isn't he the master of truth, putting up all those bones and genes to trick us into thinking creatures might actually be related. When in fact were _so_ superior to the rest we master the Earth so well. We're not killing it at all. Now that's what I call a test!" He beams. "Although honestly, I'm not quite clear on the 'kinds' thing." He sits half-assed on the bed edge, and leans over as if to confide. "You know, the ones Noah gathered. Because the funny thing is, if they branched into all the critters today, they'd have to evolve faster than those silly sciencists say they did. So fast in fact they'd all die of cancer in three generations, all those mutations happening, because mutations can only be bad, right?"

"Somebody get him out of here."

"Because that makes so much more sense than us being apes. You know, four-legged furry mammals with thumbs, big heads, no tail and eyes in at the front of head?"

The clerical pair just stands there, overwhelmed.

"Oh and by the way, you don't have cancer." House leaves in big, victorious strides.

Wilson joins him in the offices wing. "You look happy." He sort of inquires.

"Love a good ownage." He smirks.

The pager bleeps on House's belt and he spins it over for a better look. The screen reads '_JUNIOR'_. "Damn" He mutters and takes off with labored steps.

"What is it?" He demands from the door.

"He seized. Now he's arrhythmic." Chase says, injecting something in the preemie's IV lead. "This shouldn't be happening." He mutters.

House doesn't reply for some time, staring at the bassinet. "What if it should? What if he's got something?"

"Like there's something we missed? You think it might have caused all this?"

He nods.

"We did full blood works. Plates, cells, probes and sed rate, all normal. No antibodies, no toxins-"

Hoses face goes tragic. "No drugs."

Chase pulls back baffled, than stares wide-eyed in surprise. "You think he's in withdrawal?"

"Explains everything. Fits the timeline. Even explains pre-term labor."

Chase fidgets. "Prove it."

"You can't prove an absence!"

"If I put him on a morphine drip and it's not withdrawal I'll fry his brain!"

"And if you're wrong the seizures will!" House leans over, master and pupil squaring off over the infant."

"Anticonvulsants it is." Chase utters in a tone of finality.

House leaves the dueling field only to barge into Cuddy's office and find it empty. "Which meeting room?" He asks Brenda.

"She called in sick."

A slew of clues implodes in his mind: shoes, suit and breasts falling in line to forming a single though. "Shit." He spits out, asymmetrical sprint taking him through the Clinic waiting room.

He drops in on a rectal exam and pays no attention to the duet of disbelieving protests, focused on cleaning the supply cabinets of all sorts of meds, stuffing his jacket pockets with them. Two steps out, he returns for an organ transport box for good measure.

"You think it's serious?" Brenda asks him on the way out.

"When's the last time she stayed in?" He retorts, watching her face take on an 'oh, shit' quality. "Exactly."

**…**

Deafening roar of a motorcycle revved to full speed engulfs a quiet suburban street, orange and black machine careening madly into a front yard, plowing through the fringe bushes and virgin snow. The biker hops off to one leg, trading his helmet for a medical box before hobbling to the front door. When a short found of ringing and banging yields no result, he kicks the doorside pot over to reveal the spare key.

"Cuudy!" He shouts on entry, peeking into various ground floor rooms. "Where are you!?"

A faint groan answers from upstairs.

Box handle lodged around one wrist and cane over the other, House grips the wall and rail on either side of looming stairs and makes his way up with painstaking caution, both feet on each step. Once upstairs, the sound guides him to a door left ajar, open just enough for him to see Cuddy's curved back on a bed.

In a pained step-hop he's seated behind her, cautious hand feeling her flushed face, fair skin covered with sweat that glues the blouse to the contours of her body.

"You're burning…" He murmurs, taking her by the shoulders and rolling over.

She whimpers in protest of the growing chill.

"I know you're cold." House speaks in a tone of sympathetic understanding. "I need to get the temperature down." Long fingers do away with the buttons. The skirt slips past the ankles, shoes pushed off in the process. "I'll be right back."

Hauling himself to the adjoining bathroom, he dumps a pile of small towels into the sink and readies the two larger ones for later. A blast of cold water douses the towels into improvised cold compress.

Quick rundown of the medicine cabinet provides a mug, toothbrush and some generic remedies. He equips himself further with a roll of toilet paper while adding his own meds to the mix. Dripping towels under one arm and an overloaded mug in the other hand, he returns in a rush and sees her already clutching her arms for warmth.

Mug on nightstand, he unwraps Cuddy form herself, proceeding to place the folded towels over her forehead, chest and abdomen, a trick to fight the warmth retention reflex.

"Lie still. I know you're cold but you have to stay straight. I'll make you better soon. I promise."

She nods through a faint, escaping whine.

He unrolls a length of toilet paper, shakes some pain killers and cold medicine, than wraps them up before pulverizing everything in a few hammering blows with the mug.

"Dammit…" He takes off again, another lame shuffle, returning with a mug now sloshing water all over the place, due his pendulum gait.

Pale powder is poured cautiously into the water and mixed up with the toothbrush handle.

"Come here." He pulls her up against him and leads the mug to her lips. "This'll make you better."

She tries to take the mug but shivers too much, deciding to hold his hand while he does the actual support and tipping. Her sudden cry pierces the silence, liquid spilling. House feels the sudden chill of water through the upside of his denim-clad thigh, than another, tepid one underneath. A dark red stain spreads.

Cuddy doubles over and grabs at her sides, slowly rocking back and forth, her breathing labored.

"Lisa." House shakes her slightly. "Lisa, look at me." He leans down to see her face. "I have to examine you."

She nods between whimpers.

House pulls the box over with one long leg, folds double to collect it and picks Cuddy up bridal style, clenching his teeth as he carries her over the short distance between bed and bathroom, while she holds the towels in her lap like a weird safety blanket. Once in he moves her so she stands leaning against him, the two of them supported by one good leg. He tosses one towel over the toilet lid and seats her on it, another spread over her from navel to knees.

"They have to come off." He speaks, more uncomfortable about undressing than nudity.

She nods against his neck and he proceeds slowly. A few moments of clatter somewhere down, he holds a medical flashlight in one gloved hand. Kneeling in front of her, he guides her feet apart, leading one hand under the cover till he makes contact, other one aiming the flashlight. He can feel her tremble worsen from expectation under his fingertips.

He swallows hard, his face marred by sadness, flashlight drifting down as the arm holding it slowly goes slack.

"No…" Cuddy moans softly, pulling her knees against her and holds them close. "…nooo..."

House looks away from the discomforting hurt. He feels like running. "Want me to call an ambulance?"

Her shake of head is interrupted by a gasp from another spasm. "Nho."

House takes her by the forearms, suddenly focused, his voice quiet but determined. "Let go, Lis."

"I won't."

"It's already started, Lis. Let go."

"I don't-"

"The sooner it's over, the better."

"I don't want it to be over."

"I know."

"I can't do it."

"Don't. You don't have to do anything. Let me take care of it. You just stop resisting. Just, relax, ok, Lis? Relax."

Cuddy leans over and goes limp against him.

Awkwardly he embraces her. "It's gonna be ok, Lis. I'll take care of everything."

She nods but stays tense, face buried in his neck.

"Look at me, Lis." House pulls a way slightly. "I'm right here." His eyes steady Cuddy's, keeping her focus on him and away from the inevitable. "Relax." His thumb finds her jugular and strokes evenly. "Breathe."

Cuddy closes her eyes, lip bit short of bleeding out, nods.

"Don't fight the next one."

Cuddy nods again, her forehead leant on his. Some minutes later she grips his shoulders, arms resting on his and quivering with tension.

"Relax."

She does.

He feels a small weight slip to his palm, no bigger than his odd ball, and singlehandedly folds the last towel over it, the one waiting down low, out of her view.

It doesn't end with that, and the two wait huddled together. When it's all done, he wraps everything in the towel which he then deftly conceals in the box.

Afterwards, House doesn't wash her so much as awkwardly sit her in a full tub of soapy, warm water, lets her soak for a minute while he replaces the stained covers from her bed with a clean substitute, before unplugging the sinkhole and tapping her dry.

"There…" He dresses her in a soft bathrobe, the two of them walking back leaning on each other.

When she is lying in the warmth between sheets, Cuddy meets his eyes again, for the first time since he held her gaze, and whispers a very quiet 'thank you' before succumbing to exhaustion and sleep.

House collects the dirty laundry and washer-drier, his bloodied jeans included. Peeling off the rest of his clothes, landing in a pile in the middle of her bathroom, he takes his sweet time under the shower spray. He lets the cold fill him with numbness, take up the space inside before sorrow arrives.

Sauntering about in a rumpled shirt and boxers, House wonders what to do next. He doesn't know why he's got the sudden urge to clean the place, for the first time in his life, but he suspects it has something to do with staying too busy to think. Because if he starts thinking he won't be able to stop, because he doesn't know where it might take, and the fear of that unknown is another first.

So he cleans up the mess of medication and improvised tools from her bedroom and bathroom, and after that, a growl of forgotten stomach saves him from contemplating the recent event.

Between the vegetarian supplies in her fridge and his lack of culinary skill, House is forced into mixing up an omelet, coffee boiling in the background as he battles the stove.

Maybe it's the scents, or maybe the fact that a couple of hours flew buy during his disabled housecleaning, but whatever the cause, Cuddy's soft footfalls descend to the kitchen.

"Thank you." She speaks in a tone so soft he feels it an accusation.

"It was a medical emergency." He unloads the gold and white lumps on two plates. "I'm a doctor."

"You couldn't know that before you arrived. You came to check up on me."

"I came for a second opinion." The plates are dropped on her table a little louder than necessary. He glances her way apologetically.

Cuddy pulls up a chair, the eggs waiting. "What are the symptoms?"

"Started with irritable bowel and restlessness." He joins her. "Lack of sleep, hyper reflexes, cardio and respiratory problems and now a seizure."

"Looks like an over excited nervous system…" She folds her arms, a hint of self-comforting. "Opiate withdrawal?"

"Thought so." He says. "Morphine drip for weaning off or cold turkey?"

"Is that one of you patients? The kid?"

House is silent for a second only. "Yes."

"Go easy on her."

"Okay." He sighs. A thick silence envelopes them. "Fourteen weeks."

Cuddy nods.

"That's early November."

"It is."

The date falls, conveniently, smack in the middle of his lost month, the memory gap left in the wake of god knows which close call of his.

He recalls their incident of indecency at the hospital piano, day before the sentencing, their night to remember back when they didn't know if he was going to jail or not. Recalls how, after that coma, she thanked him for saving her from someone on Labor Day, but never said from who. Recalls also the way she reacted, only briefly, when he asked if there were fireworks for the occasion.

A vague thought along the lines of 'a normal person would feel something now.' Drifts through his mind. He doesn't feel a thing, but then he never counted himself as normal.

"I think my jeans are ready." He leaves the kitchen.

They're not, but he chooses to wait out the quarter hour alone, by a humming machine, than with her, because trying not to break into tears or a rage is difficult enough alone, let alone with her around as reminder.

When he returns, it's fully dressed and dispassionate, his fists white from their grip on the cane and box handle. "Well I guess we're even." House goes to leave, dinner untouched.

Cuddy grabs his arm as he passes her. "House… Thank you."

He nods curtly and all but rushes out.

**…**

"Get rid of this." House demands, box clanging against the morgue's metallic autopsy table.

"What is it?" A dark-skinned pathologist, masked in paper and plastic, looks up from his latest customer.

"Not your business." He withdraws through the same double doors.

**…**

Chase waits up for House by the NICU door, his face defeated. "He's on the drip."

House is taken aback. "What changed your mind?"

"Another seizure." The youth looks away.

"Great job!" House turns around frustrated.

"Social worker's here." Robert calls out after him. "She wants to see Cuddy."

House huffs. This is so not what she needs right now, and neither does he. "I'll talk to her."

"Cuddy's office." Chase returns to the babies.

Before House can reach the elevator, a squat black woman steps out, ID tag declaring her role of social worker.

House steps in her way. "You here for the orphan?"

"Yes." She begins cautiously. "Where can I find his doctor?"

"You're looking at him." He blurbs.

"All right." She measures him head to toe, leads the way to NICU. "How is he?"

"Born three months premature." House struggles to keep up, what with all the stairs he did. "Lungs severely underdeveloped. Kept on an oscillator, fed through a tube. Restless. Insufficient sleep. Not gaining weight. Recently diagnosed with heroin withdrawal, weaning started. Suffered two seizures." He recites matter-of-factly.

"Has anyone come to claim him?" She looks back at him.

"If they have they would have stuck around like the other good parents." He snarks.

The woman takes a slow step closer to the glass wall. "That's him?" She points.

House nods.

"How long do you suppose he'll have to stay here?"

"It's advised to keep preemies until their original due date. More if needed. For him that means three months."

"It's going to be awfully hard to find him a home." She admits sadly. "Tell doctor Cuddy to contact us as soon as possible." The woman snaps back to stern professionalism.

House can only watch her vanish.

**…**

It's in the dark emptiness of his apartment that the aftershock catches up, both physical and emotional, and House collapses on his knees a foot from the lobby. He ignores the wet sting in his eyes, the shaking of hands which support him, the way his throat feels like someone is squeezing it from the inside.

House struggles back to his feet only to rummage the kitchen cupboards. He grabs the first mostly filled scotch bottle available.


	3. Head of the House

**Head of the House**

The correct description for House is plastered, head slunk over the back of the sofa, empty bottle and glass at the coffee table. His mind is so far gone he doesn't pay attention to the loud knocking, and the subsequent ring earns only a disgruntled grunt. The noise of working key and latch are a permission to go back to idle, as it is only Jimmy.

"Come on." Wilson slips an arm under House's shoulders, slinging the older man's over his own. "Up we go." He hauls House against a protesting moan.

"Don't wanna." House slurs, the room spinning, feet failing to hold him up.

"Have to puke." Wilson caries him into the hall. "Or would you rather faint and drown in vomit?"

"Can't."

They pause at the bathroom door. "Contrary to popular belief, you are not god."

"Dry swallow." House reminds. "No gag reflex."

Wilson sighs. "I'll fix you some coffee." He turns them around.

House watches streaks of brown glide under his wandering feet. "Scotch on rocks."

"And hold the rocks?" Wilson drops him on the armchair.

"Double, please." House returns to studying the ceiling, a pose remarkably safe from suffocation.

"Maybe for me." Wilson vanishes into the kitchen. "Oh wait, you drank it all."

House doesn't notice the minutes fly by, but picks up on the promising aroma.

"Here." Wilson hands him a mug and takes a seat on one of the smaller chairs scattered about the place. After House has emptied half of his drink, the oncologist gets to the reason of his visit. "Where were you all day? And where is Cuddy?"

"Home." House answers, a lewd grin blooming. "I got her in bed and stripped her naked."

"House, I'm serious. Half the board is worried about her."

"Then I scrubed her."

"You hallucinated all this, didn't you?"

House deflates. "I wish."

Wilson waits, knowing that a drunk House is a sharing person, unlike his sober self. True enough...

"I just trashed the only good thing we made." He stares at the mug.

Somewhere in Wilson's mind a memory bubbles up, of Cuddy confiding about her blessed condition, its cause, and fears regarding it. "I'm sorry."

House shrugs. "Not like I wanted it or something. Hell I didn't even know until…" He sighs. "And to top it off, Junior 's an addict."

Wilson is stunned into silence.

"Social worker says he's screwed. No one would adopt a premature addict."

Wilson studies House intently.

"What?"

"Do you think Cuddy would?"

"She's desperate." He concurs. "It's too soon."

"Plenty of time to accept her… circumstance, before he's released."

House rubs his face and both temples. "Guess I'll have to pull out of her life."

"Because the social service won't look kindly on a candidate with an addicted lover." Wilson follows.

House smirks sadly at the word choice. "More like shagger."

"I hope the social worker was right about no one wanting it."

House looks up squinting, cogs laboring under alcohol. It clicks. "No competition, low standards, big tolerance of addicts."

"Does that mean you're sober?" Asks Wilson. "Want to go bowling?"

"Rather not have you rob me blind. Bar?"

"Rather not have you ruin my reputation with the ladies. Movie Channel?"

House shrugs. "Something violent?"

"Again?" Wilson protests. "Inane plot also?"

"What else?"

Wilson shrugs. "Sure."

…

The next day House walks to work nursing a headache, his limp more pronounce than before. Grabbing the morning shot of caffeine, he goes to the clinic without blackmail. A teen stares at him in disbelief as he grabs a couple of files from Brenda. He frowns at the boy, taking in his appearance and analyzing its every detail.

"You don't belong here." He accuses, moving his shoulder strap to a more comfortable position. "No glazed eyes, no red nose. Skin not pale or greasy or sweaty… You're healthy."

The kid gulps as if caught trespassing.

"You're thin, but you're muscular." House points out. "Means consistent, wholesome diet. No measles scars. Means vaccination. No acne either. Expensive food or pharmacy grade cosmetics. Expensive lifestyle." He explains, real patients now his captive audience. "Your height would indicate it's been so for several generations. Curly dark hair means Mediterranean origin. And that trunk is no mystery."

The kid rubs his nose to hide it.

"So what is a healthy, rich kid doing in a free hospital?" House leans in uncomfortably close. "Unless he's the dean's nephew…" House whispers, suddenly straightening. "Up."

"I'm sorry?"

"Get up. You're coming with me." House goes to leave, notices the kid is standing glued to the spot. "Now." His voice is intense without gaining a decibel.

Kid finally flows, all the way to the elevator.

House punches in their destination and produces a fifty out of his wallet. "For saving me from all the sniffling idiots." He hands it to a baffled youth. "Name's House."

"Umm, David. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Dave." House disembarks.

"So now what?"

House looks him up and down in evaluation. "My office." He gives the sign of approval and leads the way. "More interesting."

From the exposed conference room, Cameron and Foreman eye House's unusual entourage.

"People, this is Dave. A.K.A. - The cause of Cuddy's jealousy." House introduces "Dave these are my slaves." He shakes a pill to his palm, devours it and stuffs the bottle in his desk drawer. "Briefing time, people."

"Amy developed tremors. First suspect is neurotoxin, except no one else was exposed. No symptoms among family, friends, coworkers-"

"Coworkers?" House frowns.

"She works at a fast food. No allowance."

He nods. "You?"

"The reverend is producing milk." Cameron supplies. "Rancid milk."

House stares. "Cool! Athos, Portos…" He waves a follow gesture on the way out.

Unexpectedly, House stops by Amy's room first. "Dave, get in." He thumbs inside.

"What do I do?"

"Oh, I don't know, introduce yourself, flirt, get her to share…" He stares pointedly.

Dave braces himself and sneaks in.

"What was that for?" Alison is miffed.

"You'll see." House enters Jonas' room on a direct trajectory with his nipples. Dismissing the protest, he pulls the gown out of way and produces a drop of smelly yellow fluid. "This inst milk, it's dairy. Disgusting dairy if I say so."

"Yes, we already knew that." Alison is tired with the show.

"Know why it happened?"

"Rancid means spoiled, which means bacteria, which is nothing new considering his tests came back positive for E Coli."

"And the milk part?"

She isn't nearly as verbal.

"Note the hair and beard."

"Hormone based hair products?" She hazards a guess.

"No." Jonas insists. "Absolutely not. How shallow do you think I am?"

"Ok. Back to basics." He turns to the patient. "Tell me about usual your diet, sleep patterns, stress level and exercise amount. Or any recent change."

"I've been traveling a lot between conferences lately. Running around, catching planes. It's a tight schedule. But I made sure to eat right. Lots of fiber."

House glances at Cameron. "Well?" No response. "Forman?"

"More workout, more stress, mild infection... None of it would cause- " It hits him. "POW."

House hides a pleased smile. "Go on."

"None of his conditions would cause it alone, but combined, the rise in activity and stress combined with a lack of nutrients, lead to milk production in some wartime prisoners. The tour makes him move around more, its stressful, and when he gets infected the diarrhea is the final ingredient."

"Impressive."

Forman grins at Cameron. "One down."

"Nope." House pops.

Forman stares. "Why not?"

"Not your case."

"You gave us incompatible patients to make things more difficult." Alison realizes.

"Unprompted conclusion." House is pleased. "You get a point for that."

Foreman fumes at Cameron, she only smirks back.

"Get the man some grease." House orders on his way out, two fellows trailing.

He knocks on the glass wall of Amy's room and wave David over. "Report."

The kid looks between Foreman and Alison with an apology written all over his face. "She ate a raw potato to avoid a math test."

Foreman is stumped. "She'd have to eat a sack of potatoes to get this sick!"

"Regular ones, yes." House concurs. "But some small fast food have trouble with the competition. So they buy the failed varieties FDA wouldn't approve of because deep frying destroys the toxins so who would notice."

Foreman nods.

"Cameron, I have four hours of clinic to finish." He waves at the stairs. "Foreman… do whatever you like." He heads for the elevator.

Alison gasps stumped, Foreman grins.

David jogs up to House. "What about me?"

House calls the car. "There's a tone of music in my office. Knock yourself out." He boards.

…

A bulky, muscular man sporting an army crew-cut looks up from his schedule at the sound of a person limping into his office. "What brings you here so soon?"

House takes the patient's seat. "The pain's getting worse, Bennett."

"How much?" Other doctor leans on the desk.

"Double."

"When did it start?"

"Yesterday."

Bennett offers a reassuring smile. "Considering the grapevine, I'd say it's just stress. Nothing that can't be deal with."

"Would you people stop saying this is all in my head?" House stomps cane on rug.

"Calm down." The man waves at House. "No one said it is. Real stress aggravates real pain." He assures.

"You're awfully quick to pin it on stress."

"Well what are the alternatives? Weather, trauma and adaptation." Benet counts on his fingers. "If it were weather it would have struck you before. If it were adaptation it wouldn't have sudden onset and if it were trauma you wouldn't be here talking to me."

House leans back in the chair. "So how do I handle it?"

"In your case, music."

House sniggers sadly. "I can't play." Silence prompts him on. "Herpes ruined another nerve." He holds up the left underarm and lets gravity unroll the sleeve from a crater-ravaged swath of skin.

Bennett taps his pen, grabs the prescription pad. "I'll double your shots. One for the leg, one for the arm. Vicodin stays the same." He warns.

House nods.

"Listen till it kicks in. Or play something simple. One hand only."

House takes the offered paper. "Thanks."

…

House creeps into NICU. "Take Alison for lunch." He tells Chase, who waves indicatively over the babies. "I'll watch the shop."

Ausie starts removing the gloves. "Half hour." He points out.

"Half hour." House dresses in a gown.

The blond nurse from a few shifts back arrives with some tiny diapers. "Why are you here?"

"Filling in for doctor Chase. He said you should check the supplies." House tells the nurse. "I'll page you if anything happens."

The blonde gives him a long look before following her superior's lead.

Alone, House takes a slim player from his jeans and places it on Junior's oscillator. "I was told music helps with stress." He unwraps a pair of ear buds and presses play, maxed out volume barely trickling out.

A quiet, merry melody fills the space.

"This is Mozart." He pulls a stool over with his cane and sits by the tiny detoxing premie. "It's supposed to be good for brains."

Piece after piece, the music lulls both adult and infant into a calm stupor.

Untold time later, a gentle hand on his shoulder sends House jumping an inch from the seat.

"It's me." Chase calms him. "You better get something to eat before cafeteria runs out of burgers."

House slips to his feet wordlessly. "Keep the player. They seem to like it."

"I promise not to mention your donation." Robert is grateful.

…

As the last minutes of another workday trickle off to history, House tosses the medical texts from his desk in a frantic search for pills. Each minute past the schedule feeds his growing agony. He looks around bewildered, knowing for certain he left them here to stay out of temptation. But the pain is now too much and with every second he is closer to fighting fire with fire. After turning the whole room upside down, he storms out in a gait that can barely support him, dragging along the wall when no one is in his sights.

Lock-picking his way into the clinic storage, House steals a syringe, tourniquet and vial of nitro. He hides in the toilet stall and prepares for injection of the whole dose when a drunken moan from behind the plywood barrier grabs his attention. The youthful male voice is familiar but unlike anyone he knows in any detail. He rolls the sleeve over the tourniquet, replaces the cap on the syringe and pockets it before silently sneaking out.

The door is ajar, slight cane thrust pushing it open and, serendipitously revealing the thug. Dave is splayed on closed toilet, unfocused eyes wandering the empty ceiling, tracing some imagined patters. An amber vial rests in his flaccid hand, its top quarter empty, double the amount of this morning. At a glance House calculates six pills missing in the same number of hours. A day's worth of medication. A whole day of pain.

Anger overcoming pain, House grabs the syringe from his blazer pocket, flings the cap in a thumb flick and swiftly delivers the drug into David's exposed vein.

"Ow…" The youth protests faintly at first, quickly crashing from cloud nine to the depths of a killer headache. Hissed inhalation and a brows knit over tightly shut eyes tell of growing pain.

"You moronic thug." House snarls a threatening, condescending whisper. "I gave you a fifty. You could have bought some weed if you wanted to look at all 'em pretty lights." He mocks. "This is a campus town, the stuff is everywhere. The cops are growing it for crying out loud. "He passes a hand through messy hair. "Oh, no. Easier to take one from a old limpy. Like he would notice. Except if you take one when you don't need it your brain flies out the window. OR what you have of it anyway. Then you end up taking ten. And unlike you, I really need these." He snags the bottle from David.

"Sorry." The teen mumbles.

"No, you're only sorry I gave you a migraine." House points accusingly. "Well guess what." He's in Dave's face. "That's what you've put me through. Off all the days to do this…" He huffs, leant on the stall door. "I can imagine that talk. 'Tony, I need a refill, the dean's nephew snagged my meds. Sure, he'll buy that one no problemo. He'll give me benefit of the doubt on the day I gave him a hint I might go over the limit. "

"I'm sorry." David repeats, meaning it more and more by the minute.

"You'll be sorry when I tell Cuddy. You know how hard it is to get into a drug trial? I have to take the same amount of pills every day, because you can't trust the feedback of someone who takes opium as he feels like it. I only get a script a week and if I miscalculate I'm bone dry. No maneuvering room. Which means I have a useless leg half the time and a useless brain the other." He sighs exasperated.

David just stares at the floor in shame.

House disappears in the common toilet space. "Come on." He calls after David.

…

Predictably, House finds Cuddy at the nurse's station, no doubt inquiring Brenda on David's location.

"Looking for this?" He shouts over the white noise of passing staff. "Ran into him in the toilet." He explains on seeing her perplexed face. "I think he might have a bit of a hangover." He leans in to whisper "No stomach for booze."

"Yes…" She looks quizzically between the two guys. "Heard you solved both cases."

"Actually he solved one." House tips hi head at the teen who is trying very hard to be invisible.

"Really?" Cuddy doubts it but lets it slide. "Jenny will be proud, I'm sure." She leads David from House.

…

Cane taps cold concrete of the underground garage. A buzz of electric powered wheels echoes off numerous flat surfaces.

House looks up at the approaching researcher. "Need a guinea pig?"

"I thought your rat's dead?" A wheelchair bound mature blonde replies in a challenging tone.

He glares at her.

"Maybe it's just me, but your spine looks okay."

"I'd prefer you tinker with something less important for starts, say my thigh."

"You could lose all use and sensation."

"Like I have it now."

"And sensation."

"So worst case scenario is I'll be pain free? That's your counterargument?"

"Detox and we'll talk." She drives off.

"Do you listen to yourself?" House tries to follow. "I need to get rid of my pain meds to apply for a nerve auto-transplant that's supposed to solve the pain problem?" He watches her board a SUV. "Have you taken any logic classes recently?"

"Take it or leave it House." She slams the door.

House watches her drive away, staring at the empty garage gate for some time after. His hand reaches for the coat pocket and pulls the day short pill bottle, shaking it slowly as he loses himself in thought.


End file.
